


Cold hands - Warm hearts

by Lowkeywriter



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime 1990)
Genre: 1990 snufkin, Fluff, Gen, Genderfluid Snusmumriken | Snufkin, because we all know it is canon, cold hands is a metaphor for mental illness, dealing with mental illness, first time writing moomin, fuzz and misery, happy to help, if you didn't get that, minor snufmin, no beta reader we die as cowards, snufkin is cool as a cucumber, so one can't really exclude it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 17:52:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19361749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lowkeywriter/pseuds/Lowkeywriter
Summary: After an unfortunate incounter during their winter travels Snufkin returns to Moominvalley, a slightly different mumrik from the one who left it.





	1. Prologue

Familiar birds were singing familiar songs from their places up in familiar tress. It was the sound of life and happiness, and it made the wary traveller less mundane in their inability to voice a spring tune of their own.

Without hurry in their step the slender mumrik travelled along the forest path; careful not to step on the newly awoken flowers. They framed the slithering path so beautifully where they stood, and it would be quite rude to crush them so very early in their lives. Death might be a part of life, but Snufkin had never been one to find unnecessary destruction very entertaining; necessary destruction on the other hand – such as the big hole Snufkin had made in an ugly fence between boarders down south – was most entertaining.

Smiling to themselves they trotted along, still minding the flowers and still listing to the birds. They wondered if attempting to whistle along would be worth a shot, but decided against it. Risking to either offend or attract the birds looking for a mating partner probably wasn't the best of ideas. And Snufkin had enough problems without having to fight of birds, whatever their intentions might have been.

The fact that they hadn’t had anything but water and frozen berries to eat during the last week or so was one of them, the shortage of caffeine and tobacco in his system was another and the fact that whatever they touched turned freezing cold was the most troublesome of their problems, as it might also be viewed as the origin of them if one wanted to be Hemulen-minded.

The hem of Snufkin’s sleeves had been frozen since the middle of last week, and the stinging cold had burned at their wrists at first, but no longer. They didn’t know if it was because they got used to the cold, or that the skin around their wrists simply had given in and lost the ability to feel?

Not that it mattered much. One could learn to live with most things while on the road, and how different was numb wrists from clothes drenched in rain or a backpack infested with talkative toads? And if Snufkin were to be completely honest they probably preferred numb wrists to the talkative toads; much more peaceful.

The path widened, trees became fewer and further in-between and a bright morning sky could be seen between naked branches.

An instinctive urge to un-pocket their harmonica and taste its familiar irony taste filled every fibre of the mumrik’s being, but they had learned their lesson. Icey cold, metal and moist skin was a recipe for pain and humiliation. Their lips and tongue had healed, but their pride not so much.

 Moominvalley just had to do without the sound of Snufkin’s harmonica this year.


	2. Winter is over, but the cold remains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Moomin have had a pleasant winter; but is very much surprised to be woken Moominmamma rather than Snufkin’s harmonica.

Moomin never thought the sound of his mother's ever so loving voice could make him so very sad. Moominmamma was the best mother there was – an opinion Moomin would defend ‘til his dying breath – but for it to be her that woke him up after four months of hibernation drew a cold and sickening feeling from somewhere deep inside of him.

“My dearest sweet little Moomintroll, spring has arrived, and it is time we made it feel welcome”, a breeze of fresh spring air flew through the attic as Moominmamma opened the window, making sure that the rope latter was securely fastened under the windowsill if her son were to be in a hurry to get outside, “don’t you think?”

The young Moomin cracked an eye open and saw his mother standing by the incredibly bright window, well, he could see the silhouette of his mother, but not much else. He groaned and pulled the cover over his snout.

“It can’t be spring”, he stated in a muffled voice, “Snufkin isn’t here yet!”

Silence followed, a game Moomin never been especially good at, and he soon peaked from below the covers.

“Why isn’t Snufkin here yet Mamma?”

Moominmamma made her way from the window and sat down at the foot of her son’s bed, carefully placing a paw over his outstretched leg.

“Oh but they are Moomintroll”, she smiled and patted his shin reassuringly through the covers, “they are downstairs…” she didn’t get much further before Moomintroll had flopped out of bed like a fish out of its bowl, squirming about on the floor for a moment trying to free himself from the twisted covers, and then dashed towards the staircase.

Moomintroll swore that the stairs had grown longer since he last climbed them. It seemed to take his short legs forever to make their way all the way down to the ground floor, and hundred upon hundreds of thoughts flew across is still half a sleep mind, trying to make sense of why Snufkin was downstairs and not atop the bridge’s balustrade.

Had a spring flood wrenched the bridge away and therefore made it impossible for Snufkin to wait for Moomin there? Had Snufkin perhaps lost his memory and forgotten that he always woke the sleeping Valley by playing his wonderful harmonica from atop the bridge? Maybe he had lost his harmonica and simply couldn’t wake them up by playing it? Or what if the person downstairs wasn’t Snufkin at all but an imposter that had stolen their dear friend’s face??

Moomin violently shook his head as he reached the last set of stairs, all of those scenarios were impossible. Pappa had built that bridge himself, and nothing on this earth could wrench the sturdy construction away; Snufkin loosing his memory or his harmonica was as likely as Mamma losing her precious purse; and that it could be an imposter was just too unlikely too be true.

Maybe Snufkin had played his harmonica, and Moomin simply hadn’t heard it from his deep winter sleep? But that just couldn’t be. Snufkin’s harmonica was the most beautiful sound there was; it could calm the wildest beasts and woo plants and mean-spirited imps alike. There was no way Moomin could have slept through something as magical as that!

In his hurry to get downstairs Moomintroll decided to jump the last seven steps, something his legs – weakened from his long sleep – couldn’t quite handle.

A loud _THUMP_ interrupted whatever conversation had taken place at the table moments before, and two pair of brown eyes turned towards the furry pile of limbs that moaned in pain at the bottom of the stairs.

“Moomintroll”, exclaimed Moominpappa and got out of his chair. He helped his son up from the floor and dusted a bit of loosened winter coat from his shoulder. Moomin rubbed his snout and looked around the room. His wide blue eyes soon finding the warm brown ones of his best friend in the whole wide world. Snufkin.

Snufkin sat at the dining table, fully clothed as he always was, with his pipe between his teeth and a steaming cup of coffee in front of him. He smiled at Moomintroll, the best he could without loosing the grip on his pipe, and Moomin could feel the churning feeling in his stomach disappeared. He smiled back with every fuzzy ounce of his being.

Snufkin was home.

“Snufkin”, he opened his arms and moved to embrace his friend, but Moominpappa’s paw was firm on his shoulder and held him back. Confused he looked up at his father, who just shook his head gently.

“Easy son”, he said and squeezed the shoulder he held on to, comforting.

 Moomin looked from his father to Snufkin, who still sat quietly at the table, back to his father and then to his mother who had finally made her way down the stairs. Something was clearly wrong, but he couldn’t for his life figure out what. Snufkin was right there. Sure, he looked a bit tired and worn, but who wouldn’t after traveling all winter?

Moominmamma, ever the mediator, patted her son’s other shoulder and made her way across the room.

“Would you like some coffee dear? And maybe something to eat? It has been an awfully long winter”, she disappeared into the kitchen and left a prominent silence behind.

Still genuinely confused Moomintroll let himself be led to the table, and in a spaced-out manner be seated next to his father, who in turn sat next to Snufkin who still sat at the head of the table.

“Hello Moomintroll”, Snufkin’s voice sounded hoarse, but as kind and calm as ever. They carefully raised a gloved paw to remove their pipe, and a distinct _crunch_ -ing sound could be heard as the knitted fabric was creased; and as Moomintroll looked closer he could see that they were covered in a fine layer of frost.

The content of the pipe fizzed and died, and Snufkin placed it besides Moominpappa’s on the ashtray; awkwardly placed their paws back on the table.

“Hello”, Moomin replied in a voice much too small, his large eyes stuck like glue on his friend.

Moominpappa cleared his throat and sipped at his coffee.

“How was winter?” Snufkin asked, ignoring atmosphere in a way that was so much like them. Moomintroll blinked, not sure how to answer.

The winter had been pleasant, he presumed. He had only awoken once and had been able to go back to sleep only hours later, after a quick visit to Too-Ticky’s and a wander about the woods. It was a shame there hadn’t been any adventures he could tell his friend about, but he would rather have adventures together with his friend anyway.

“It was alright”, he said, “how was the South?”

The mumrik nodded and sat quietly for a while, seemingly gazing off into another dimension.

“Cold”, he said after a while, and that seemed to be all he had to say on the subject.

Moominmamma came back in from the kitchen, holding a fresh pot of coffee, extra cups, a tin with biscuits and the braided basket that served as the moomin’s first aid kit, in her arms. It was a basket Moomintroll was very well acquainted with, as there had been a lot of scraped knees and elbows during past summers and adventures.

She placed it all on the table at took a seat next to Snufkin, who looked down at their covered paws with a brittle expression. Moomin had never seen such an expression on his friend’s face before and felt at a loss. It was far too early in the morning – and Spring – for such a mysterious situation to take place.

Moomintroll sat up straighter in his chair and watched as Moominmamma filled the new cups with coffee and pushed one across the table toward him. He took it. The warmth of the cup felt comforting in his white paws. Moominmamma placed her own cup to the side and started unpacking the braided basket. Bandages, both cotton and gauze, plasters of all shape and sizes, scissors, cotton pads, tape, pieces of linen shredded into manageable straps and a little box of safety pins.

Snufkin looked at it all with guilty written all over his face.

“Mamma”, they said, “you really don’t have to…”

“Nonsense”, she interrupted them, “would you mind taking the mittens off dear?”

Snufkin did as asked, and Moomintroll almost spilled the coffee all over his paws, despite holding the cup completely still. Snufkin’s small and furless paws, usually tanned and covered with a layer of dirt, were white and trembling. As Moomin continued to stare he decided that they weren’t just white, they were an icy blue, bordering on see-through kind of white. The same kind of white that one could describe an icicle to be. Moomin felt a chill run through his bones from just looking at them.

“What happened!?” the question had pulled free from his thoughts and crossed his lips before he knew it, and somewhat louder than he had intended. Three pair of eyes stared surprised at him, whereof two soon looked away and a pair of green ones met his, filled with sympathy.

“Sit down dear”, she said softly and Moomin realised he had stood up and pushed his chair over without even noticing it. A tad embarrassed he placed his chair back on its legs and sat back down. He cleared his throat, sounding much like his father, and looked back and forth between Moominmamma and Snufkin, waiting for an explanation.

Moominmamma turned back to Snufkin’s paws, plucking with her supplies as if trying to decide how to best tend to the problem in front of her. Snufkin ignored Moomin’s question as well, sitting quietly observing Moominmamma’s wandering paws. Finally, she reached into her purse, receiving a pair of neatly sewn leather gloves, usually used for gardening, and put them on. She hummed as she started to cover Snufkin’s paws and wrists in cotton fabric, working very carefully as not to touch them directly. After that she put tape where it was needed to hold the bandage in place, and then a layer of gauze over their palms, back of their paws and almost all the way up to their elbows, where Moomin noted that the skin thankfully still had its usual, mumrik-ish, colour.

After an additional layer of linen, fastened with safety pins where they wouldn’t be in the way, she removed her gardening gloves and handed them to Snufkin. They took them without a word and looked up at Moominmamma with big eyes.

“They will be more manageable than the mittens”, she explained and put the thawing mittens away. Snufkin nodded and placed the soft gloves over their packaged paws, with some difficulty.

Moomin’s knee was bouncing up and down without his control, anxious for an answer to what had happened to his best friend. He knew there was no point in pressing for an explanation, but not knowing was slowly killing him.

He watched as Snufkin reached for his cup, quite clumsily grasping the ear, and taking a sip. The coffee had stopped steaming the second they had taken hold of the cup, and they put it back down on the saucer with a frown and disappointed sigh; the porcelain ear covered in spiky ice crystals.

What in the name of the Wizard’s cursed hat was going on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let it gooo, let it goooooooooo, can't hold it in any moooore


End file.
